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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28761846">deadly definitions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blvejay/pseuds/blvejay'>blvejay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys &amp; Sophism (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:01:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>813</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28761846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blvejay/pseuds/blvejay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Infatuation - an intense but short-lived passion for someone or something.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps that was what Kieran felt the night he held that blade to her throat. Perhaps that was what had made him hesitate. Those damn pensive eyes. He knew it would not last. He knew it was nothing more than a dream that made him falter. And yet he did falter. He did draw his blade away. Someone saw the Purple Hyacinth. Someone finally had the power to destroy him. He let her go. He sketched her that night, and then again and again hoping and praying that this short-lived heart fluttering would fade with each time he set his pencil to the paper. It didn’t.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lauren Sinclair &amp; Kieran White, Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>deadly definitions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this was a writing warmup and uh-- I take no accountability yeah anyways. This is kinda like a precursor to ep 43 ig?? IDK LMAO enjoy</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Infatuation - an intense but short-lived passion for someone or something.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps that was what Kieran felt the night he held that blade to her throat. Perhaps that was what had made him hesitate. Those damn pensive eyes. He knew it would not last. He knew it was nothing more than a dream that made him falter. And yet he did falter. He did draw his blade away. Someone saw the Purple Hyacinth. Someone finally had the power to destroy him. He let her go. He sketched her that night, and then again and again hoping and praying that this short-lived heart fluttering would fade with each time he set his pencil to the paper. It didn’t.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Adoration - a sense of respect, reverence, strong admiration. </em>
</p><p>Adoration. That was all. He admired her sense of justice. He admired the way she always strived to do the right thing the right way. He respected the way she fought the right way until she had to fight the wrong way. He admired the way she laughed and joked with him and the way she touched him and the way his heart fluttered— Adoration. That was all. That was it. He drew her again. The feeling only grew.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Attachment - a feeling that binds one to a person.</em>
</p><p>Each night she spent in his cave left him dizzy. Each night he’d spent there alone now filled with a passionate red-haired goddess, laughing as she yawned and flicked through papers and organized their impossible heists. He wondered if he could ever discover the right mix of paints to replicate such a magnificent color. He tried, again and again and never once could he do it. Never once could he possibly hope to capture her beauty, to capture the way she laughed or the way he would bend the world in half to see her smile. He would burn the world down if only to keep her warm. It was impossible and he knew it— like some dramatic retelling of Romeo and Juliet, only Juliet could never love him back. An assassin and an officer. The beginnings of something great that would never be. He’d read plenty of tragedies, and this was a copy and paste plot. A lowlife in love with a goddess, a million ways it could go wrong, no clear path toward happiness for both of them. No way. No hope.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Denial - a refusal to accept</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He could beat this. He could push her away. He could free himself from this prison and simply go back to how it was before. Easy, uncomplicated. An assassin following orders and doing what he had to in order to survive. That was who he was. That was all he would ever be. <em>That </em>made sense. This did not. This impossible feeling, this desperation. She clouded his mind and he could not have it. He could not do what he had to while wondering every night what she was thinking. Did she want him as badly? Would she give herself up the same way he would for her. She couldn't. It was his job to protect her-- <em>your job is to <strong>kill</strong></em>, the voice in the back of his head taunted. He ignored it. His job was to get her out of this, this dangerous game he had pulled her into. Infatuation was a dangerous thing. Infatuation was what had gotten them both into this. And infatuation would be what got them both killed. Not infatuation, <em>Lo--</em></p><p>
  <strong><em>Dear heart, why her?</em> </strong>
</p><p><em>Love -</em> there were a million definitions, none quite the same, but Kieran’s only definition was her.<em> Lauren Sinclair.</em></p><p> </p><p>Kieran had never understood it before. Love. It was such a peculiar thing, so fickle and so fragile and yet it was the one thing people would topple entire empires over. And it made sense why. He stood, dropping his pencil and rubbing his face. He stared down at the drawing. And then the several dozen others, none of them quite right. Still, he couldn't help but reach out and run his hand over them. He would shove her away. He would scare her. He would make her hate him, because he couldn't hate her. That didn't happen in tragedies. The love interest didn't shove the heroine away-- he didn't make her despise him with every fiber of her being. And so he would. If only so she would have a chance to survive. He knew the the plot of tragedy. He knew how to avoid it. And so he would. He ran his hand over the long-since dried paint, his heart beating painfully slow. He could almost imagine his fingers running through her hair, her pressed against him, his lips on hers as he determined to make her hate him forever. </p><p> </p><p>No matter it took, Kieran would rid himself of this distraction. No matter what it took, Kieran would keep her safe.</p>
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